1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum